


No More

by AltaVega9



Series: No More [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Anxiety, BringOnTheAngst, ClarusTheBear, ConcealsWithCharm, DarkTimesDarkMeasures, Depression, EtroIsAB, Fun with Iggy, FunUntilItComesUndone, GladioKeepsHisHead, Hurt Noctis Lucis Caelum, Monarch!Regis, NoctDeflecting504, NoctIsGoodAtHiding, NotInAnyWayRight, PromptoIsACinnamonRoll, SassMouthIggy, Self-Harm, Suicide, angstwithplot, dad!Regis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 10:08:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24469252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AltaVega9/pseuds/AltaVega9
Summary: "You're having just a little too much fun, Noct.""Come again?""Don't shit with me, Highness."Noct was flat out dying.It's all fun and giggles until it's not. Regis watches the world pass through his fingers, and Iggy, Prompto, and Gladio are not having an easier time.
Series: No More [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1767454
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	1. Language

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ivorydice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivorydice/gifts), [AngelBless](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelBless/gifts), [BreakfastTea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BreakfastTea/gifts), [Saber_Wing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saber_Wing/gifts), [fayth (zanarkand)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zanarkand/gifts), [mikkal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikkal/gifts), [Gnine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gnine/gifts), [yukiscorpio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yukiscorpio/gifts).



This particular stretch of wall was becoming rather comfortable.  


Like the rest of the hallway, it was cast in shades of black: jet, onyx, charcoal, ink, dark but in stages of descending into pitch.  


There was actually a story behind it.  


When he was much younger and Clarus, for one holy minute, had not had his hands full, the King’s Shield had caught him staring at the walls. Hands behind his back, Clarus approached him from behind and announced his presence, scaring the sweet shit out of him, before he was able to summon back his spirit from the Astral Realm, his nerves calming, thereby allowing him to settle in and listen. He seriously hated it when Gladdy’s dad acted like a bear of a spectre.  


The color and design, Clarus said, was to give depth and dimension to the impressions on the thick wallpaper, but he also added that the kings and queens of yore had their own preferences: jet for the Founder King, onyx for the one who preferred polearms to swords, whoever he was, while one of the queens liked pitch, only because that symbolized the bottomless despair of those she conquered. The different names they gave for the same color (he couldn’t remember the exact terms anymore, it was boring as hell to memorize crap) entered from ancient myth and became embedded in the rich tapestry that was the history of Lucis. Allegedly, King Mors had the story incorporated into the very walls to remind all who walked by that the Royal Family did not forget the gift of its forebears.  


Not that he believed it--Clarus told him that his grandfather had just hated the bare walls and commissioned some artisans to fix the long stretches of nothing with something less irritating.  


And so here he was, ten years later, digging his back into said wall of plenty, obscuring a couple of royal, stiff, severe faces, some script taken from Soleheimian poetry, and one other face. A solemn, serene, but still, possibly even more severe face.  


Taking up more significant space and accented in intricate symbols from the lore associated with her, the Goddess Etro lept, almost lifelike, from the wallpaper.  


As a child, once he had made out her face where he hadn't anticipated he would, he had become extremely uncomfortable with looking at such a peaceful expression on what he would learn was the Godess of Death’s face. She would have been beautiful, her ringlets long and framing her soft face, but in the depiction, she gave him the chills. She looked too blank in sleep, eternal slumber his tutor would correct him a few days later when he mentioned it off-handedly during a lecture about the religious history of Lucis, and he realized she wasn't even human even if she looked like one. The Astrals liked to have their fun, his tutor tried to explain. Well, at least they're lucky. Sleeping was nice, but not being able to wake up was a little too harsh for his taste.  


(What was the point of being a goddess if you had to sleep through the whole thing? I mean, I like sleeping, but I also like playing King’s Knight and give certain people a healthy cardio workout.)  


His eyes traveled for a fraction of minute before they stopped. The thinnest of bands crisscrossing the corridors and marble flooring were of gold, signifying where he was: the North Wing, Seat of the King. The rest of the citadel was plain, save for his own apartments which were outlined in silver. The floors reserved for the Kingsglaive were outfitted in the thinnest of white, making the contrast pop, while the Crownsguard had a deep burgundy, signifying the importance of protecting the blood royale. The more senior retainers were allowed a royal blue accent, while more junior staff, that is to say anyone below the age of sixty and past eighteen, were assigned olive green. Most only adhrered to the accent per class when it was required. Otherwise, the secondary colors were respectfully retired, and standardized uniforms used.  


But all he was seeing right now was black.  


He adjusted his hips and quickly sank into a good spot.  


He wondered how paper could feel so luxurious through his clothes.  


He thought hard for a while but eventually stopped.  


No matter.  


He burrowed his back deeper into the wall. Then his mind went off on its own, too tired to say no:  


Maybe it was the wooden panelling beneath the wallpaper, cushioning it. Or maybe it was his silk shirt. Still, it could be silk against skin, and skin against paper, against luxurious wallpaper against wood, and all of that against all those layers of texture.  


And oh, the velvet lining of his tux.  


He was wearing a special tuxedo, after all. Which would have fed a village, or might have looked good on Cor, or would have been amazing a top a burning trash pile, but instead here it was, on his back, demanding he keep his posture straight, making him feel unbearably warm, trapped, and unable to move properly.  


His dad wasn’t kidding about those chains on his shoulder. They were gold, yeah, but still, pointless ornamentation made to remind you of shackles really---oh damn, he was starting to sound like...  


“Noct.”  


Oh, wow. That was fast.  


He preferred a t-shirt and jeans any day. No velvet, no silk, just cotton, denim, that sort of thing.  


“Highness.”  


Internally, he sighed.  


“Noctis.”  


It was about time. He would under no circumstances check his watch, but he was sure, with an error of under two percent: he had been gone for all of forty-five minutes without a text, phone call, message hastily scribbled and left on his kitchen counter.  


“NocTIS.”  


Nope, not moving.  


The air shifted somewhat.  


But no. He would not give any indication that he heard anything.  


“Noctis Lucis Caelum.” The tone was hard.  


Oh no, he was going with The Full Name.  


He determinedly did not flinch.  


“Your Highness, Prince Noctis.”  


Now, he was starting to actually get down to business.  


Noct feigned being deaf extremely well. It was how he learned to survive being the son of the reigning monarch, being the resident Sabertusk in his high school, and extremely chirpy, hopped-up-on-something-I’d-rather-not-know staff at the malls and the local convenience store.  


“Your Highness, Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum, Son of His Majesty, Regis Lucis Caelum—“  


It was tempting. This whole statement was beginning to get so much fun by the minute...  


On the surface, he looked unperturbed, flat, and blank.  


Deep inside though, he smiled.  


The clicking of leather shoes registers in his ears for the first time.  


Oh, he was wearing the Altissian leather this time. They had such a distinct smart click to them. Ohhhh. Which meant that Iggy was stressed beyond belief today.  


Noct still did not respond.  


The clicking got slower, heavier.  


More, ah, what was the word?  


Ah, yes. Deliberate.  


In spite of himself, Noct had to remind himself to keep his mask of impassivity in place. It was wonderful to watch him get flustered from time to time.  


Tap, tap, tap, tap. The intervals were getting shorter and shorter.  


He was getting incensed. And he would definitely not like that…  


But Noct was very good at this game.  


So he continued to say nothing. Face impassive, eyes focused on a spot straight in front of him, he basked in the glory given by another round of silence. One of his legs was folded at the knee, anchoring him to the wall, the other burying a blindingly polished shoe into the marble.  


”I know you can hear me.”  


Now, his eyes were glued to a pair of handsome double doors.  


Which were also in black. Deep rich darkness, impeccable, impenetrable.  


Was there wood called Ebony? Like the drink? He couldn’t be certain.  


“You know that when the Council is in session, it takes at least three hours before they adjourn at minimum, yes?”  


“I’ve had sufficient experience to know, yeah.”  


Oh crap. He had given way first.  


“Which means the meeting could go on for more than that amount of time?”  


“Naturally.”  


“And that even if you wait until, say, all of Eos perished, you still might not be granted an audience?”  


“I did grow up around these parts.”  


“Noct.”  


“I just want to talk to him. I’ll be all of five minutes. Five seconds if you drag me away around the time the doors open. If I make it to when the doors actually open.”  


The second man ignored the last remark. “Which means standing in the hallway for something that may very well not happen today. Or in the next few days.”  


Noct smirked and shook his head: he sure loved subtext. A little too much.  
“Wow, Iggy, you’re beginning to sound like an optimist. I like it.”  


Ignis was standing across from him, a stern figure in a three-piece suit sans the jacket. He was carrying a few folders, and looking, well, unhappy perhaps was the best way to describe it.  


“You know better than to reason, Noct. You’ve got homework, two reports that I need you to read,” he brandished the two folders at him, “and a training session with Gladio and some Glaives in thirty minutes. King Regis would not approve of this.”  


Vaguely, North thought, that's where you're both the same--unrelenting.  
Which was immediately followed by, wow, Iggy sure likes keeping track of my crap. Why should crap be important, anyway?  


He would have laughed, but then his ears caught the words that had been so casually not said but had completely meant, and which Ignis, in all his wisdom, was so easy to understand but forget.  


“He’s not just some king,” Noctis muttered, faking petulant. “Come on, Iggy, you can do better than that. No Ebony for you.”  


“As I well know,” Ignis agreed, softly ghosting across the words the way a patient brother would, but not looking or sounding any less firm. “What I simply meant is that as the king, he has placed me by his own will at your side to serve a very specific purpose: to make sure that no harm comes to you and that you make the right decisions.”  


"I don't think I knew that." There was no hurt behind the words. Just resignation. And a pointed look that looked extremely bored.  


Ignis kept his eyes on him.  


Noct sighed.  


“Each time?” Noct asked, almost wanting to brain himself on the wall opposite him.  


Ignis frowned.  


Noct gave the slightest, smallest shake of his head, but didn't say anything.  


And then Ignis looked strangely stricken, then resolute. “Every time,” he intoned.  


But Noctis was not done.  


He fished his phone out of his pocket. Unlocked the screen. And gazed into it.  


Shining brightly, the wallpaper was a picture of him and his dad.  
His dad had let him sit on the hood of the Regalia. He had been seven at the time. He was smiling, and Regis looked happy.  


There was also significantly less gray in his hair.  


“You know something about Regis, Iggy?" He hated how unpleasant that sentence felt in his mouth, but he wasnt game for mental gymnastics without getting some fun out of it. "He wouldn’t approve of someone keeping a son from his father.”  


Ignis looked hurt. “You know I’d never.”  


Noct’s look returned to blank as he thumbed the screen absent-mindedly: he was lost in memories.  


Sighing, Ignis lowered his voice. “I just want you to go through the proper protocols to make sure you actually increase your chances of actually seeing him.”  


He said nothing.  


"Noct."  


There was an edge of exasperation to Ignis' voice, and if his ears weren't deceiving him, he was desperately trying to reel it in.  


Do you always have to be so married to it, Iggy? Like this whole setup we have is all that matters? Frankly, I'm tired of having a nanny. Hasn't granted me any pleasure. Just your constant, continuing disappointment. Although the cooking sure does make up for it. So what’s for dinner again?  


"I do understand. Maybe more than you think possible. I'm not some machine who doesn't know what it is to deal with matters of the human heart."  
When Noct still said nothing, Ignis stood up straighter. His eyes wandered, before alighting on the double-oak doors that concealed what, no, rather, who, his friend and ward was waiting so badly to see.  


“I know it is hard.”  


Trying to not look at him, Noct slowly, slowly raised an eyebrow. At no one in particular.  


Which Ignis, razor-sharp as always, caught:  


Noct was surprised.  


Because Ignis chose not to say anything for the next couple of seconds.  


Then Iggy, looking resolute and stringed tight as a fiddle, straightened his vest with nimble hands before promptly and prematurely stopping. Noct watched as he pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed out.  


Noct soon found out why. But a part of him suddenly felt a little bit bad with the gentle tone that emerged from his friend.  


“I don’t want you to stand here forever. Standing here means a lot of different things. I’d rather you reconsider. So you don’t waste any time. And you don’t get your hopes up too high.”  


Noct nodded dumbly. Which was standard-Noct response, but too vague to be interpreted correctly to see if he actually agreed—or did not, but simply had no desire to argue about it.  


And then Iggy moved in for the kill: He looked Noct square in the eye.  


Something shifted in Noct’s gaze when he finally saw what was staring at him, something alien and weird and plain horrifying:  


There was mirth in Iggy’s eyes.  


“Refusing to do anything else but stand here means an increase in the chance of developing varicose veins. And fainting from locking your knees for too long. And if you get annoyed, that, on the other hand will mean that your hands will itch for something to do. And you don’t want something, much less anything, to carry out that’ll involve a mountain of paperwork. Done on my desk. At the crack of dawn. Not to mention, the pleasant summon of the one and only king of this country after I submit said mountain and he reads your name in the first sentence and summons me right back. My grave dug and my tombstone polished the very same hour. No. I don’t think you’d want that to happen.”  


Noct couldn’t help it anymore. The desire to laugh was more than he could take. So instead, he steeled himself and gave Ignis a side-glance, praying the edges of his lips would stop quivering.  


“Breathe a bit. That was a long list.”  


Ignis raised a hand to his face. Two fingers started massaging the center of his forehead. He grunted.  


“Goodness, had I known it would be like this, I don’t think I would have said yes to the job. Individuals can be too hopeful and too eager when they’re six.”  


Noct was about to say something witty, but instead he paused, collected his words.  


And smirked.  


It was what Gladio would call “the perfect shit-eating grin.”  


“You’d think I was trying to set off some bombs in the capital.”  


Without missing a beat, Ignis removed his glasses. From his pocket, he removed a lens-cleaning kit. He withdrew a square of micro-fiber cloth and started buffing the lenses. “Two vastly different things. But equally stupid: I daresay you wouldn’t want King Regis on your case. Or your father, for that matter.”  


“Hmmm,” Noct answered dreamily. “Just Dad on my case. Would be an improvement. Then I’d actually have some time alone with him.”  


Ignis tried very hard to not roll his eyes, have a seizure, or both. He understood Noctis’ predicament, but it was becoming increasingly difficult for him to be effective (as an adviser, this was paramount).  


But he was used to being patient, proper, and perennially pragmatic.  


“If you wanted to take down the capital...” He trailed off.  
Noct was curious. “What?” He couldn’t believe his ears and he was getting goosebumps.  


Ignis had his full attention. Things were proceeding well. So he tilted his head in a small nod and hummed: “Well, this is another way to do it. Forcing your will upon him.”  


Noct tried to act like he didn’t understand what he had just heard (he did, and it hurt), but thankfully Iggy ploughed on with trying to reason with him.  


“I need to prepare dinner when we get to your apartment. The stew’s not going to cook itself, will it? Also, it’s been a week since I entered your room: I’m expecting to deal with the aftermath of a tornado. And don't deny that that isn't the truth. Oh Etro, take me. I wish for an easy death, not a cursed time loop."  


Noct nodded sheepishly, but was feeling outwardly adventurous: “Nothing you can’t handle.”  


Iggy said nothing. But then: “Just because I say nothing, doesn’t mean I don’t want to say something.”  


Noct. Was. Now. Openly. Laughing.  


“I’ll ask one of the Crownsguard to drive me home.”  
Ignis' face was cut glass, hard, all angles, and still uncertain. He put his glasses back on. “And Gladio?”  


“Already called him to say I’d be late. He isn’t happy, but I informed him like a good boy, so there’s that. He’d probably skin my ass if it appeared as though I ditched him. Can’t get trashed during the next time we meet. I promised Prom we’d go play games tomorrow.”  


“Did you clear this with me?”  


Noct looked at him incredulously and Ignis shook his head, aghast. “No matter. I’ll see you at home. Preferably when the moon is still out tonight. Do I take it that you understand? And I don’t mean wee hours of the morning at all.”  


Ordinary people would have balked at the tone. Coupled with Ignis’ penetrating look, the attack was lethal in more ways than one.  


But Noct knew it was just nerves and the stress of making sure the day ended on a tidy note. He always had this mental image that his adviser would make the best at embroidery or math or even cooking. Oh, he actually did at the last, he thought. Iggy excelled in the exact.  


He smiled. “Yes, mayum. I’ll drop by the store to get you some Ebony on the way back.”  


“Bribery doesn’t work on me.” Ignis pushed his glasses back up; they had been falling down his face; the lens cleaner had made them damp. “I won’t keep the stew hot. Or tend to you if your knee acts up once you get home. Or even be at your apartment if I feel like I’ve waited too long. I also won’t listen to you bitch about being scolded tomorrow. As you keep elegantly saying when in a pinch: fuck that”  


“Language, Iggy.” Noct’s smile transformed into a laugh. A deep, full, belly laugh. “Ooooh, It has a sassy mouth.”  


He loved it when Iggy was being passive-aggressive; it was his way of showing he cared.  


“Don’t tempt me, Noct.”  


“What? I thought you were game.”  


“Yes and no.”  


“You love me too much, Iggy. I know you won’t do any of the three.”  


Ignis shook his head, before pushing off from the wall. “I wasn’t aware you were poor at counting. Hmmm. The things we learn every day.”  


“Oh, shit. So you will be at the apartment later?”  


Noct watched as he strode down the carpeted corridor, took a right, and vanished from sight.  


“The things you do for love and duty, eh, Iggy?”  


“I heard that.”  


Noct leant back. And positively giggled.


	2. All That is White and Pure and Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noct is Adam, and Etro is Eve. 
> 
> Eve shares a gift that destroys Adam.
> 
> And Adam's lament is to write The Story of Grief after his eyes are opened

“Noct.”

For a full minute, Noctis blinks. 

He tries to piece things back together, his thoughts hanging around him in a broken halo of images and sounds that shimmer and gleam.

He rubs his eyes, not making sense of anything at all.

He rests his hand on his thigh. 

Then he stares off into space.

For an eternity or a few heartbeats’ worth, he can’t tell.

He yawns.

Silently. 

_What did the Chocobo say to Prompto when he walked up to her in a bird suit?_

_Looking fly, boi._

He snickers deliriously. 

Was it even a dream? _Prom looked great._

_Birds of the same feather completely._

_Fine-feathered friends._

_Blondey Baes._

_Bae Birdies._

_Birdies goes bye-byeeeee._

And then Noct grimaces: 

The _darkness-less_ of the room nudges him in a completely different direction. 

It sure didn’t happen where he currently was. 

His eyebrows knitted together. 

_Where exactly has he been for the last couple of hours?_

He doesn’t know. 

Strangely though, he doesn’t care. 

Everything is warm and soft and thick and _just right_. He’s comfortable, on an island, separate from the rest of the world. 

He turns his head to one side. 

Pillows. 

Looks down. 

Duvet. 

He’s in bed. 

_Oh_. 

He looks to his right-most side.

A _nasty_ amount of sunlight is filtering in from a tiny crack that the curtains had left uncovered. _Criminal._

He rolls over, willing his body to follow the command, which it does, albeit sluggishly, and steals a glance from his alarm clock. 

The monitor _glows_ red: 7:45am.

_Shit._

He sits up, electrocuted with a mixture of shock, apprehension, and fear. 

“Your Highness—“

_Here comes the start of the Sermon of the Day. Which I totally deserve, but it still sucks._

Noct winces. “I’m up, Iggy. Sorry.” 

“I know you had that report to make last night, so I didn’t _intrude_. But this is _pushing it_.”

“Right.” He hears himself say. “Must not have heard my alarm.”

He stumbles out of bed like someone set his ass on fire. Perhaps the same someone whose eyes could be Fire Incarnate when threatened with dereliction of duty—or abandonment of a strict princely code. Either seen, or felt through the walls, those eyes burn, incinerate, or smolder. 

_Smolder._

Exactly the way he was sure Ignis’ eyes were right that moment, cutting through the walls with the precision of a scalpel, all the way from the kitchen island. Less than ten feet away. 

And then he hears it, and his thoughts are confirmed: the Wrath of Ifrit is a soft, controlled, gravity-imbued whisper.

“Yes, well, you are _now_. Don’t make food _wait._ ”

In spite of himself, Noctis responds with a hasty “I’ll be out of the shower real quick.”

Ignis’s laugh is transparent and light and _chilling_. “We’ll see.”

Noct smiles at the familiarity of ice thawing, but it slides off his lips when he finally realizes that the word _challenge_ never bodes well for him, especially when up against the Master Taskmaster and Time Keeper.

Iggy has gotten all of that down to _equal parts science and art._

“Up, and wet, and dressed, Highness.”

So he'll try, _of course_ , but he won't force himself against a Wall of Conduct the sheer size and girth of The Wall protecting their people. 

He spends all of five minutes getting his hair wet and screwing his head back on, before finally making sense of the shampoo bottle in his hand and working a little of the peppermint-scented liquid into his hair. 

Everything else goes faster after that. He wraps a towel around his waist in record time.

“That was twelve minutes and nineteen seconds, Your Highness.”

_Or maybe not._

“Sorry. Took a while to wake me up.”

“The water or your will? The garula stew is getting cold.”

“Just a sec. Gotta put some clothes on first.”

“You’re perfectly fine the way you are.”

“I could oblige you, Iggy. But then I don't think the lumpy, old logs you spend time with would like it.”

“I'm flattered, but no. My eyes wouldn't be able to stand _the pain_. My loyalty goes all sorts of ways, including firm and unapologetic, Highness, but even your scrawny backside isn't worth spending a few hours with those so-called logs you detest, not to mention Light of Lucis Major. I’m writing to your English teacher to give you a few more drills to better your vocabulary."

"Too bad. Slept well, so I was in a good mood. And just great, Ig. More work."

"I'm sorry to be cruel. But you tempt me. I don’t want to cross over to overbearing just yet. There are three more steps before you get there, but you've always over-excelled when it comes to Poking Your Adviser. Still, you have to earn that. Or, maybe, _not_. I hope for your sake that you _aren’t_ interested. Or else, I'm telling Gladio. He'll like an extra hour of sparring with you tomorrow morning. ”

"You mean him beating the shit out of me when he's fresh from a run and a protein shake? No thanks." Noct scowled, brushing away a wet lock smack in the middle of his face, before proceeding to dry his hair. "Why do you like being such a mother, Iggy? And what are the three steps to Kingdom Come. Go on. For once, I promise to listen."

"Mother? Am I? I was going for grandmother, more matronly and respectable. There's this show I just discovered. The family matriarch, Violet Crawley, she's what you and your limited vocabulary would call ‘badass.’ Now, hurry up."

"You're a witch."

"Thank you. I do try to be like her. Makes for keeping young, erring men in line. Also, our secrets are paid for in blood. I don't think you'd like that."

“Hold on one sec. Back up. You said I'm good the way I am. Right now. So you want me _not to be naked_ , but that naked is good?”

“Did I say that? Shame I wasn’t so wise as to come up with that nugget of wisecrack.”

“Mean, Iggy. You actually want me to get a cold?”

“My, my, we have to pencil in _getting your ears checked._ ”

Noct snarls for a quarter of a second, but the thought of Ignis' eyes make him shake his head instead. 

(They're still having this conversation through the wall.)

If he is smiling, he _won't_ acknowledge it. 

“Iggy--”

“Your Highness, I care. Just not for deaf or stubborn, mostly _deaf and stubborn,_ young mules. Also, a scrawny, white bottom does very little to appeal to me. I like mine more robust, more rotund. Tanned, too.”

“Oh, I see all right,” Noct sniggers. “I’m telling Gladio.”

“Never threaten a sleeping Hydrean, Noct,” Ignis _tuts_ , sounding almost bored, but more _superior_ in a way. 

“How come I can never scare you?” Noct says, exasperated.

“You scare me in many other ways. I suggest you take care of your slovenly appearance on a regular basis. That alone commands more power over you than either your father or all of Lucis. Also, stop pouting. I can see through this wall, and if that isn’t appalling on a prince’s face, I don’t know what is.”

* * *

In the cool and quiet sanctuary of this black room, many things happen. 

Sometimes, Noct drifts off, awake or asleep.

He thinks of beating Prompto on King’s Knight, or he has dreams of beating Prompto at King’s Knight. 

Other times, he whiles away the time with his hand-held console. He actually does co-op, beats Prompto at King’s Knight, levels up three times, and then calls it a day. To eat.

And then get back to more time gaming. 

He spends his alone time well. King’s Knight is a worthy cause.

Other things are just as important: not making a jackass out of himself. He doesn’t like to see Clarus look so stern, or have his father limp into his office just to give him a worried, wordless look. 

Today, a few meters away from his bed, because _duh_ , Noct puts on his dress shirt.

It is white, made of a cotton blend that doesn’t need starching or ironing, allowing for it to never crease. The only thing is that it is a little thicker than the rest of his similar tops.

_Which can be a good thing._

He hates the feeling of suddenly being wrapped up like a piece of candy.

_Or not._

To kick his mind into gear, he plays a little game:

He's wearing this high-end straight jacket because he wants to. 

No. 

He wants to because of the The Challenge Ignis Endured to Get Them.

No.

Because he looks good in them. 

Not even that. 

He wants to actually look decent. 

Or maybe it’s because Ignis laid it out last night before leaving, a migraine forcing him to take an early exit.

More like a combination of the last and the first.

 _Don't make me rue the day I bought them for you_ , Iggy had lectured him. _The Council has been discussing your appearance in passing for three sessions in a row now. I know your reservations, but sacrifice is necessary in the greater scheme of things, Noct. Now that the weather is cooler, you might not be so averse to sleeves._

Noct had been playing a round of King’s Knight, and gave the standard response to things he didn’t like (grunt), but then Ignis had then added in under a heartbeat:

_I'm sorry, but I think I need to lie down. Will you manage with dinner? Please put the dishes in the sink. I'll take care of them in the morning._

That had gotten his attention. He had looked up. Ignis looked (what was the word he used? knackered?), positively exhausted. _Thanks for the shirts, Iggy. Yeah, best you hop into bed early. I’ll see you tomorrow._

He turns to look at himself in his full-length mirror. 

The fit is perfect. Just enough of an allowance to let him breathe, or bend down to tie his shoes, or twist in the air mid-warp, perhaps manage a phase or two if he needed to without him wrecking a _functional piece of tailoring, Noct_.

Not that he would have to. Well, normally. 

They were school shirts. Worn typically in a place that did not usually involve moments where losing your head was a danger. (But Prompto would strongly contest that point, with a whine, and a forehead connecting with a tabletop.) 

He takes a closer look at himself. 

He fills in the shoulders nicely. The hem settles just below his waist. While constricting and structured in ways that outclassed a regular t-shirt, he still ‘appreciated’ them (like was such a strong word, and he would never admit that to anyone, much less Ignis, lest Iggy go on a shopping rampage). 

The extra space around his chest and waist was well-thought out, the right amount of give from his shoulders to his armpits completely welcome. He had discovered both aspects when he had forgotten to change before a training session. The shirt was extraordinary in that it had withstood a few rounds while he went toe-to-toe with Gladio. But then again, he wasn’t surprised. 

_Until you find yourself staring down a dagger or evading successive shots from a gun, be decent, and don't be a slob. Oh honestly, it isn’t rocket science, Your Highness. Tuck, pull tight, adjust, that’s all you need to do._

So, _fine,_ he agrees to tuck his shirt in right that moment. _There you go, Iggy._ He frowns the entire time. 

Ignis, connoisseur of breathable but durable, sharp fashion, had found them for him during one of his rare trips to buy clothing for himself. It had been a weekend and Ignis had tried very hard to enjoy “a waste of time.”

According to Iggy, he found it strange to do something solely for himself. But Noct had been happy: for once, his Dad had put his foot down and issued an ultimatum—sending an email that basically stated _either you start using your accumulated vacation leave credits of three years, or the weight of this office is going to make sure forced leave is enforced_ (not exactly the smartest way to phrase it, but in no uncertain terms would Ignis be able to ignore the order). Expounding on this, King Regis said, very politely, that he would revoke Iggy’s car privileges, lift his access to Noct’s apartment, and diable his official phone).

Which was pushing it, but well, maybe His Majesty actually meant business. 

And with this type of mandate, there was no way, practical or sane, to say no to the ruler of Lucis. 

Iggy had been frantic. 

But initially not with what to do or where to go. 

Ignis had been busier weighing and evaluating two things—what was better: forced leave, or _forced_ forced leave? 

All of three seconds later, Ignis, who was smart enough to figure it out, decided that he did not want to mess with superlatives. Or kings. Or the son of a king who sang _enjoyyyyy Iggyyy_ and _I’m telling if you don’t in the same breath._

He’d rather do battle with rabid shoppers any day. 

So, of course, he was extremely courteous and grateful for the “gift.”

(Apparently, Cor and Clarus had a hand in this somewhere, something that Ignis could neither contest or admit to openly, which made it all the more hilarious, since _it was_ _plain as day that he was certain_ and it was written all over Iggy's face.)

Noct easily laughed his ass off the moment Ignis had shared the content of the email— _because it’ll affect my schedule with you, Noct, we need to rework some details_ —Ignis had gone all shades of puce before nodding stiffly, mostly to himself, before telling the King, through a swift and beautifully written email response, “that he would fill in and send the proper paperwork, and thank you for being so generous, Your Majesty.” 

Even Gladio, who joined them for dinner the a few nights before this was to take effect, gave Noct a secret wink—Iggy looked thoroughly put out and it was a sight to behold. Gladio, who guarded his vacation time fiercely, had already taken a short vacation to Accordo a few weeks back, not needing to be prodded to do so.

 _Iggy likes to be shoved into the mud before he gets into it. That was a great shove by His Majesty, eh, Noct?_ )

So, shirts.

Along with steel gray, charcoal gray, deep plum, and a vibrant orchid (yes, that was allegedly the name of the shade, said the store clerk, and _it’ll set off your eyes very nicely, Sir_ ) which he purchased for himself, Ignis had bought the usual black for him, in silk, a few in linen. 

When he went over to inspect the shopping bag, he was surprised to see that there were not _one_ , but _two_. 

And that the other bag held _six_ , soft, silky white, long-sleeved dress shirts. 

Which apparently were for him.

 _They were on sale_ , Ignis had told him dismissively. _I immediately thought your school shirts could do with retiring. You have to think more of how you present yourself to the public, Your Highness. The extra is in case you get a rather severe attack of Horseplay while Princing._

Noct never wore white; the color made him look like death, pasty, pale, gaunt, and washed out. _They’re all one and the same word, Noct,_ Iggy would have told him, but whatever. Iggy also knew that the Royal Family were expected to wear one very obvious color. Which he liked (it complemented his hair, bright blue eyes, and his fair complexion), but _you’re skirting the point_ because _your school requires that sort, and not even the House of Caelum can contest the authority of a school administration._

Still, he thought, his ratty school shirts were completely fine by him. He hated breaking in new clothing: they always seemed so scratchy and stiff. 

But just to appease Iggy, whose temple was perspiring, and who was looking rather expectantly at him, Noct had quirked an eyebrow in his direction and smiled. _Thanks. They look great._

It was only then that Ignis had felt secure enough to leave, trying very hard to look as though he weren’t gritting his teeth through the surges of agony blasting through his head.

Now here was the real score on the dress shirts Iggy had bought:

Noct had never really worn any of these shirts, well, except for that one time when he had to look like an actual prince (for his graduation photo; his dad was going to get a copy, and so was, oh _God, everyone else in his immediately circle, it would seem, including Luna for some strange, twisted reason_ ).

Oh, there was actually one other instance where he had to play the part: for an important dinner with his dad after a diplomatic visit went better than expected (he didn’t want to have to change, but he didn’t want to look like he didn’t care, either, and it had been three weeks since Noct had seen him, much less had the chance to enjoy his company).

Ignis hadn’t said anything, but the shirts had always been ready in his closet, gleaming with newness, striving to catch his attention and encourage him to look smart. Once or twice, Noct had been on the end of a curt reminder to dress more carefully, _to look more put together,_ but caring made his skin itch even more than just the thought of wearing a new shirt. He had heard Iggy, but he had either forgotten they were there (he always made an automatic beeline for his old shirts) or didn’t want to bother (they looked nice on the hangers, best leave them be).

That had been two summers ago, when he was fourteen. 

He began to button his left cuff, three fingernails lightly brushing his wrist. 

It was already winter. 

The change to his other uniform set was welcome. 

Thick and substantial was a good feeling. Not only was his uniform warm, _in the right way and at the right time_ , it was comfortable as well, making him feel secure in the harsh but dry, frigid weather. While not a specialty jacket, his school jacket had just enough insulation; the surface layer was reported to be water-repellent. 

(Noct vaguely remembered the words _wool, Prompto, water pistols, and experiment_ somewhere.) 

It was also convenient: it kept away stony looks, awkward glances, long conversations, loud shouts, harsh reprimands, even harsher silences, and other _things_ that made his heart pound and drop at the same time, while also beckoning forth nausea, a sudden graying of vision and knees giving way. 

The four, thin scars were barely visible at this point, but then again, no one would see them; they were located in an area that would be covered by long sleeves. Or had been for the last two or three weeks. 

He did not want to think about any of it.

The moment the second button locked into place, holding the cuff closed, he transferred to the right cuff and busied himself with it. Grabbing his jacket off the hanger slipped into one of the handles of his dresser, he shrugged it on, ignoring the fact that his collar felt crooked, and grabbed his bag.

“Noct? I’m dropping you off in _twenty minutes_.” There was now an impatient bite to his words. 

“You mean I can’t eat?” Noct closed his bedroom door behind him and padded into the kitchen. 

“I’ll think about it.”

“Morning, Iggy.”

“Omitting the ‘good’ part is smart, I agree.”

Noct knows he should feel embarrassed. He actually looks as though he truly is. “Said I was sorry, Madame.”

“Not so sorry if you don’t sit down this instant and eat. Honestly, what would you do without me? Die from hunger and smelling like death in sheets from yesteryear. Oh, the Six save me.”

“I don’t think you need the help,” Noct muttered, and Ignis gave him A Look. 

"With your level of mess and mischief? I wish the opposite were true, Highness," Iggy sniffed. 

Laughing, Noct tucked into his food. “You never disappoint.”

He adjusted the his sleeve of his jacket before sitting down and picking up his knife and fork: “You get a raise from Dad? This looks better than usual.”

Something softens in Ignis’ face. But he does not respond. “That hair looks like a Chocobo had its way with it.”

Ignis, pristine and suave in his usual slacks and button-down shirt, not a single hair out of place, surveys him intently through clear, sharp lenses. His face betrays no thought or feeling.

He motions for Noct’s hand.

Noct raises a hand, palm open.

Ignis shakes his head just a little bit and drops a comb into it. Noct stares at the grooming item, then grins sheepishly. “Good point.”

“Also, I think you use some sort of product--?”

“Yeah, I think I ran out of hair wax. Pick me up a tub of Limit Break when you’re out, please?”

(Ignis taught him many things: to not draw attention, do not draw attention.)

“Of course,” Iggy replied mechanically. “Is there anything else you need?”

“You’re a lifesaver,” said Noct, smiling over the rim of his glass of orange juice. “But no, s’all good. Chocobos are cool, by the way. Ask the Birdie Baes.”

Ignis gives him a questioning look at first, but then sits back in his chair, reading the last of the newspaper. “Still half asleep, I see. I’ll allow it. You have five more minutes, Highness.”

Funny how things of that sort helped in cases like this, allowing one to isolate oneself without giving oneself away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1:  
> Heavy stuff here, folks. Please mind the change in the tags. 
> 
> If you are triggered by mentions of self-harm, suicide, depression or anxiety, please do not read this chapter. As an author, public health practitioner, and mental health advocate, I will always prioritize the mental well-being of my audience. Do not risk your mental health over a chapter of entertainment. 
> 
> The next few chapter will gloss over these topics, and I will be sure to mention that in the prologue to each one. 
> 
> Stay safe, healthy, and whole, my wonderful readers.
> 
> Note 2:  
> I can be a bit fickle when it comes to writing, but stories, any work of fiction or non-fiction really, is an organic, breathing, living entity. This is the reason why I'm going down the "new" path that this story has carved out for itself. This story will be non-linear (I hope you can enjoy piecing together all the parts into one big puzzle!), making it more of a challenge to read, but hopefully, not to love.
> 
> Thank you, and please enjoy.

**Author's Note:**

> PS Clarus says he is all right with being called a bear (it inspires fear and strength from the mountain), but the specter thing is a little too much. He's not that anemic, Highness.
> 
> \------------------------------------------------  
> Thank the Gods. I never thought I'd see the day when I'd upload my first FFXV fic. Please be gentle. I am not impervious to visceral attacks. Hihi. 
> 
> But for real now:
> 
> I will never be able to write as well as the FFXV fanfiction greats of AO3 (in no particular order: ivorydice, AngelBless, BreakfastTea, Saber_Wing, faith (zanarkand), mikkal, Gnine, yukiscorpio, setto, etc.). Be that as it may, this is my humble tribute to the blessing that is their writing for the fandom. 
> 
> To all of these individuals, you inspire me to always exhaust all efforts to write well. Not saying I have, or that I will, but damn, your way with wordsmithing and world-building makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. I am an angst child after all, and dialogue plus great characterization (not to mention, well-executed plot) is wonderful to behold (you tick all the boxes). Cheers!


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